Best Achingly Poems
If I wasn't there,
the rain swollen clouds
would have still dumped
their dark weight over the bay
and through a gaping tear,
let down a curtain of sunlight
to start the day.
And if I wasn't there,
the old, arthritic labrador
would have still waddled
along the street
with its bent but steady gait,
undistracted, self absorbed
and fixed in its own stare
that allowed no deviation
from years of devoted plod.
The morning had no need
for me, what happened
would have happened anyway.
There's an annoying sadness
in knowing the earth
doesn't seem to care
if things pass unnoticed.
Sunsets and waterfalls
carry no favor.
To it, the achingly beautiful
and the catastrophic can
happily go unreported.
And yet I still ask -
what's the point -
and entertain the notion
that the universe has this
innate and unfathomable need
for a witness
to take in Creations
unfolding riddle
and make it fit together.
I could be wrong,
but for each of us,
the privilege of being here
on this gifted earth,
to understand, care for
and tell its story in song
fulfills a purpose,
if only to this end -
or something more.
When the
glacial sun slips
in softened womb
of the scarlet
spheres at dusk,
yearning for
hibernal rebirth
as a lustrous
morning star,
it radiates
golden beams
like lakes of sunshine,
flowing over
chiming starlit bells
in our hazy haven;
and I scrap
frosted flakes
off the bittersweet
pamphlets that
whisper our names
in the misty winds
of 'Us'.
Calming the
coalesced chaos
within my
infernal pulses,
his warmth drapes
this enchanted soul
with daffodil-
smudged days
of hot cocoa amidst
a wintry wonderland.
If I could bloom
like an arctic
afterglow's heart
on bare alpine trees,
I would only
choose him to be
my daylight-
perfumed violet
scent, evermore.
I can never
stroll away
from the shimmering
silverine memory,
when my muse's
trust breathed
hailstorm's poesy in
my solstitial lungs
and kissed the
fractals of a bruised
poet's spirit.
Dreaming of yuletide,
I achingly yearn
to become the
silken apricity of
those soft lyrics
that swing in his
thundersnow thoughts
and frostbitten flesh,
re-writing the jaggery saga
of twin-sanguine-lovers
in beige brushstrokes
of foggy 'We'.
Sometimes,
I forsake to
surrender and
ask for a peaceful
nod from the
'Lord of Soulmates',
can I be the
honeysuckle ink
for my beloved's
watercolor feather,
always nurturing
the snowy twists of
our tale within fate's
untold wisdom?
When I desire
to wander in
black-iced myths of
insatiable agony,
will he become
my bejeweled healer
and fight off those
sombre silhouettes
of Jack Frost's
saudade, like a samurai?
For, I take him
as the gift of
my last wish,
forever inhaling
the chilly secrets
of our lantern-
lives in my
subconscious visions,
that keep me
alive upon
crestfallen sleets
of intuitive icicles;
I want to live forever,
in his pearly eyes' abode,
which coruscates
with glossy lustre
of fireflies and
makes me flutter
my hiemal
white wings like a
spellbound fairy in
grey-orchid sonatas.
When I met the tall and amiable Vietnam War veteran,
my shyness showed,
yet, my throat dried and tightened when he softly
spoke the words, "The war never goes away."
All these humanity destroying wars never cease,
soldier's names, faces, their eyes so well-worn.
Their love letters sent home never faded in their
immortality.
The soldiers who made it home alive weren't
given a hero's welcome.
Their nightmares flashing as they wake up
sweating in their sheets in the dark,
yelling for respite from still hearing and
being in the firefight, still seeing the VC,
and witnessing the life breaths leaving
mortally wounded brothers.
Descending into the night's loneliness,
the blue-gray of the t.v. on low volume,
the sobbing of a loyal wife.
Some marriages, families split apart
with crushing sadness,
many veterans homeless on U.S. streets,
such a heartbreaking shame shadowing
over the face of America the beauty.
Surviving veteran's hair becomes snow-white,
war wounds achingly arthritic,
memories of their war buddies still sweetly
preserved in their mind's images.
Vietnam War veteran's reunions as their
bones stiffen, but still salute their brothers
and sisters in arms,
their hats with the name of the war,
the pride of their service.
Many barely out of high school,
with brothers of the same town,
the same state,
so much youth called up,
joining brothers from other regions
of the U.S.
Blessed by God in their fraternity,
their bravery.
The deep red poppies represent their
precious blood.
I remember the 1960's-70's searing
scars in my mind,
weeping for the loss, the hurt in our
hearts over the Vietnam War.
MIA's, POW's,
disappeared as aging families still pray,
still wait.
In the local Veteran's Cemetery,
I met a woman in her eighties,
she was a little confused,
couldn't recall where her Vietnam veteran
son's grave was located.
She told me her daughter-in-law couldn't
bear to visit his grave.
We found his grave,
his name glistening in the dew of
that gentle May morning,
as wrens and sparrows sang on
blossomed boughs.
A chance encounter became such a
gift to honor her son,
and his mother.
To let her know he was not forgotten,
but cherished,
Welcome Home. ~
A Renga for Poetry Soup:
Meander
Time and the river
Endless silver morning
Autumn leaves float by
Shimmering streaming mountains
Pines swaying in constant winds
Morning mirror
Another gray hair
Ah! the wind of time
Spring's last daffodil
Plucked for a dinner paty
Diamond blue fragments
Reflecting off stream waters
Another moonrise
Sunset colors disappear
Shooting stars
Campfire sparks
Fresh fish and conversation
Embracing shadows
How many friends have vanished?
Canyon echoes
Retirement time
Facing all the could-have-beens
Tears in whiskey
Quietly at the gravesite
For her long dead daughter
Rolling ocean waves
At the sunset horizon
A ship disappears
Dry pine needles underfoot
In the distance, tolling bells
The sound of a car
Approaching - disappearing
Sleepless night
Between the windowsill plants
A single moth, dry as dust
Cloud shrouded moon
Moire patterns fill the sky
Wandering ghosts
Great grandfather's photograph
Fading before my eyes
Dried flowers
Holding a spider's web
Sunrise
Children building sandcastles
The sound of waves and laughter
The old phonograph
A song from long ago
A shaft of dust-light
Sitting on a redwood stump
A logger counts his wages
Stopping to listen
An unknown bird's mournful song
Fern embroidery
Seeds on the wind drifting by
Tea kettle whistles
In the dazzling sunlight
Achingly white billow clouds
Ring of blue
A drone of mid-day falling
On the autumn wind meadow
A hawk ascending
Call of triumph echoing
A trout in her talons
Smoke from the hermit's cabin
No one remembers his name
Winter rain
The dry emerald brook
Resurrection
Waking from a flight filled dream
Facing the machine filled day
Watching the moon set
Chaotic starshine appears
Orion's embrace
Singing satellites sparkle
Between the winter branches
River of wonder
Filling the child's eyes
Christmas morning
Bright snow on the open field
Melting in the winter thaw
All that I can find
Of the homesteader's church --
The empty window frame
Spring breeze rustling the old tree
The sound of grass and lilacs
The old woman
Serves herself a cup of tea
With her memories
Forest boulder
April rain
The Darkness of Cold Oceans Dwelling Deepest
Into the utter darkness of cold oceans dwelling deepest,
there is far beyond any glimmer of hope an outer limit
that defines a dark realm of the true supernatural reality
existing beyond any iota of human understanding on Earth.
In this dark realm lies a catacombic-womb of dead souls
bled white from the inside-out-turning of sand-blasted
nightmares of pure evil that envelope into a desert storm,
whereby living-dead apparitions appear in the shadows.
In this Procrustean bed there lies these horribly-tortured souls
who are like fossils of a past strife-torn life—a past without
any mercy since the unloved ghosts who exist there sense a
palpable pain erupting deep within every second of eternity!
This achingly slow-death falls into a sentence as forgiveness
now is impossible and a weathered-weakness of bowels spiced
from this seabed's loving memory appear as a bright-white pearl,
and the golden sun rises and sets as rats spread the Black Death!
Gary Bateman and Liam McDaid, A Collaborated Poem
Copyright © All Rights Reserved – August 15, 2018
(Quatrain)
"The clouds parted like the pursed lips of desire,"
drawing an ambience for dreamers to dream
with watercolor whispers and acrylic zen ~
amorous, magnetic, and achingly alluring,
dusted in mauve-winged wishes,
as the moon’s crown sparkled in gold…
O beloved crescent ~ that stirs my ink,
love me like sultry sea waves,
rippling through Cupid’s veil ~
a surreal sketch of sunset soulmates,
destined to dance beyond time’s thistles,
oblivious to the jades of jealousy.
Meet me where memories fade,
and pain is an unfamiliar poem,
for I wear your love-stained letters ~
breathless, spellbound, and intoxicated
by the scent of handwritten heartbeats…
But if stars could sing, and dusk could speak,
would you heed the tunes of twilight,
like rain tracing fire along your skin,
while night hangs silent, and the breeze unfurls~
a ballet of butterflies in sync,
with the pulse and kiss of lunar lace…
For every wonder free inside your mind
And every dark thought of miscontent.
For every disappointment in your soul
And your memories of a life’s intent.
For every desolate night you feel alone
And every mistake, that you have mourned.
For every tide that abandoned your shores
And the day that was yours, it never dawned.
For every moment that you took the ball
And ran but not nearly fast enough.
For every moment you lost your heart
And with it, everything that you loved.
For every moment that you saw yourself
And in your reflection it did not lie.
For every tunnel that you dug yourself
So no-one could ever have seen you cry.
For every wish, that still, never came true.
For every woman, that made you blue.
For every cry for help, that you ignored.
For every moment of hurt, your heart stored.
Every time you started, then you stalled.
Every time your name, not even called.
Every time the same lie, that you tell.
Every time, you staggered so close, then fell.
For every moment you, achingly, ponder
Every irrevocable step with regret.
Please forgive those mistakes honestly made,
Learn that you never have to forget.
I slept all day and woke to the rain,
With the low purr of thunder rolling around my temples.
Through my open window rose, darkly, the scent of the earth,
Cool, ripe, metallic,
Revived by the unforecast shower.
I waited, the airless gap stretching wider,
Time stepping, achingly, forwards,
Slicing away second upon second,
Until, finally, the clouds sparked with great forks of lavender light
Which, with all their majesty, faded as quickly as they had come.
It has rained for many hours now.
The sky demands we witness her.
I run uphill for some way,
mostly on an easy pavement,
and partially on a jarring dirt track,
I resentfully enjoy a route
against which I am free to struggle.
The path gradually starts to flatten out,
I breathe heavily with relief,
strain not regretted.
I think of the houses I run past,
or of the squatter camps
too painful to see.
I think of the towering slum,
once a magnificent tyrant,
now usurped and left for dead
by a tyrant of the restless new world
not twenty miles to the north.
I reach the halfway point and turn.
I run downhill, back the way I came,
my legs work with a lesser rebellion,
the morning becomes brighter
and the evening less spiteful.
I enter the last straight line,
more or less flat
for a couple of hundred yards,
I stretch my legs and open my stride,
my muscles burn, achingly free,
for a moment I cannot be caught.
Still, running into the morning
and away from the night,
my ankles remain idiotically shackled
and for some reason I cannot outrun
Johannesburg's hard earned pain.
13th November 2018
Amidst the sacred places
I've witnessed distraught faces
A virtual Kaleidoscope of races
History often traces
Many are hungry and cold
Politicians bought and sold
Achingly, our God embraces
He competes to fill vacant spaces
Ima try to honor his plan
His kingdom is meant for man
But it's turning viciously dark
Lord hold my hand as I embark
The daily realities can be so stark
Hard to be tender and surrender
While yielding a sword I might need to render
Divisions grow strong amongst gender
If you have a special angel, send her
I'm made from the rib being tender
Equality, increasingly, a mind bender
Engage me in the sacred spaces
Let me hear boisterous laughter
Have my back in extreme cases
Teach me when to sit and when to stand
How to enjoy and employ loves embraces
Deep in forests of green,
beneath majestic timbers,
in soft woody light
wild roses are to be seen
Achingly beautiful,
wild roses
The colour
as I imagined
The wild rose,
wends its' way
through the green
The colour
The purpose
All knows
All can be seen
For where there are shadows
A wild rose will burst free
For it knows,
knows it is part of me
Petals of velvet
Fragrant scent
The place we met
My heart
All it meant
A wild rose,
deep in forests of green
Shadows cannot mask
The beauty I have seen
Achingly slow the way that we kissed,
enjoying the entrapment we laid in.
You commemorated this with cursive.
The soft swirl and soft hand of cursive
matched us as the paper was kissed.
Italics bold as your tongue trucked in.
It was comforting how you creeped in
with flirtation flowing in pristine cursive.
Immortality penned the way you kissed.
A love letter french kissed in cursive.
Along the tracks of Grandma's quaint backyard, her lavender perfume reminded me of my early teenhood,
digging the soil to thresh the roots as I buried seeds through its clayed womb.
In this late hour, my eyes feel her calm laughter, speaking to each blossom and naming every new bud after me:
Somehow, I sit on an old bench recalling how we tended ringlets of leaves...a pleasure which grew through seasons until it was my time to water more trees rising higher than I.
And fragile like shamrock, Grandma bowed low to greet new shoots while her fingers wrinkled and grew thin --hiding her unknown body pain.
Oh she owned the moon ; nature was her lavish throne.
Gathering a few truant stems, I hear her banter among vines... a melody so bouyant descending
from God knows where on the horizon:
I smile and sob in reverence at this panoram among the mist and weeds of duskfall.
A pond stretches its loop where ripples curl between my toes; and a festoon of red blooms huddle on its bent slope weaving through the rim of a hill...
The nimble tap of spring grazes my face as I wiggle my palms to relish this moment draped in pristine streams-- achingly alone-- bearing all
the glow of Grandma before an ensemble of birds whisks by.
Now as a midlifer, I trace back my teenhood with charmed fondness, knowing this secret garden is now mine to nourish and harness--
her spirit sashaying across the pampas
with abandon--
until then and until when, I cling to ' now.'
In the depths of despair I sank fathoms down
so deep suffocation filled lungs with defeat;
in the darkest of hours no light cracked the shell,
no matter how much I would plead and entreat.
The world turned to ice and froze me right out,
snaked into the marrow and writhed in the mind;
I dreamed of a time when the final cut
allow me part company with humankind.
When all seemed so hopeless and curtains would fall
a ray pierced the blackness and shone at my soul;
and gradually, achingly found where I live,
lit up my life and eclipsed the black hole.
A meeting by chance, a random encounter
put back the sun and turned me around;
you never can tell who's a guardian angel,
or likewise the source of salvation be found.
achingly ...
he still recalled
as if but a day hence ...
the air still moved, tender
the earth a-sole, still trembling
grasses parting like swells for a mighty prow
dust from bulky feet in diaphanous clouds ...
swept up and woven like a thin shuka
as if a Maasai blessing
to grace the hips of the coy Kilimanjaro ...
yet naught remained but the beautiful white
the echoes of the poachers' rifles
and the countless cries of a grand species, ghosted
lost to the thirsty Serengeti soil
shamed red by the rills of blood let
for a sake, sadistic ...
and the inexhaustible glut
of greed.
Submitted on November 26, 2020
To the "On Your Marks, Naturally" Poetry Contest
Julia Ward, Judge & Sponsor.